


Stains

by taormina



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Open Ending, bond is a bloody show-off, q likes making stuff for bond A LOT, q's lab, stripping kinda, unrequited requited love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 13:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6568312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taormina/pseuds/taormina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q accidentally gets tea and coffee all over Bond’s suit and shirt. Stripping off ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stains

One of the many perks of being fancied by MI6’s sexiest and most innovative employee were the gadgets. The goodies. The cars. The bright explosions that were caused with a mere flick of a switch, and the explosions that followed in the pit of Bond’s stomach whenever he and the Quartermaster met.

Every time Bond met him, Q would have invented a brand new wristwatch, sports car, gun, Swiss army knife with thirty-two different settings _and_ an in-built MP3-player for if Bond wanted to listen to whatever secret agents listened to, or, more recently, an exploding umbrella. (The umbrella was by _far_ Bond’s favourite.) Q being Q, the gadgets would always find themselves in Bond’s eager hands one way or another. It was his subtle, nervous way of telling Bond how much he liked him. Words were not the Quartermaster’s strongest asset, but inventions — now, _those_ he could impress a man with. 

Naturally Bond knew he’d caught Q’s heart long before the high-tech gifts started rolling in (the big, dilated pair of green eyes that stared at Bond every time he so much walked into Q’s lab in the morning were a bit of a giveaway), but he didn’t tell Q that. Q not knowing that Bond liked him back made everything so, so much more enjoyable. It was as if they were playing a game of which they both already knew the outcome; how to get to that one, final stage was what counted, not what would happen if either of them won. In the game of love, all players were equal losers and winners.  

Thus far, all the inventions that had recently ended up in Bond’s arms were standard issue. Useful guns and weapons, digital maps that could be projected onto walls and floors, that sort of thing. Usually, the other 00-agents ended up receiving them too — albeit much later, and without the nervous flailing that usually accompanied Q whenever he talked to the sexy blonde agent in his lab. He hadn’t really invented something especially _for_ him.

But things were about to change.

One day, on a long-distance mission far, far away from hospitable areas and decent 21st-century technology – and with only Q and a bunch of other Q-branchers talking to the secret agent in his ear –, Bond complained that he had not had a decent cup of coffee for weeks.

Coffee.

That was a new one.

For a short moment, the Q-branchers that were listening in genuinely feared that 007 had been brainwashed or manipulated; 007 was known for having a predilection for the _heavier_ drink, not coffee. Tea, yes, but espresso? Cappuccino? A man as suave and cool as James Bond was best spotted with a whiskey martini in his right hand and a gun in the other; brown, bitter drab such as coffee was reserved for disgruntled Q-branchers who worked on weaponry throughout the night. The man must surely be losing his mind.

But alas, on the next mission coffee was again mentioned, and Q started thinking. What if he made Bond a portable coffee machine? No — an espresso maker! Indeed, an espresso maker that could somehow be folded up and carried along on missions in a mere pocket of a jacket, and still _looked_ the part. (And made delicious coffee, of course.) Q had made smaller, more impressive items in his short MI6 career; surely he’d be able to pull it off?

Inspired thus, Q quickly got to work in his quiet, underground Q-lab and conveniently forgot about the rest of the world. Nothing else mattered. How he was going to surprise his sweetheart with a bespoke gift, did. Even M’s incessant e-mails about an upcoming mission in Turkey went completely over the Quartermaster’s head, and before his young assistant returned with his third cup of tea of the day, Q had already made a decent sketch of his high-tech espresso machine. By the time a sixth teabag was deposited into an overfull trash can, the machine was up and running. He’d actually done it!

Looking at the machine now, in the lab’s subtle white and green undertones, it didn’t look unlike the streamlined, minimalist espresso machines that high-end department stored displayed in their shop windows at Christmas. From a distance, it looked utterly perfect: better even than the one Q had at home!

This particular coffeemaker came with a twist, however; one press of a tiny green button, and the machine would effortlessly shrink into a diminutive grey cube, ready to be put into someone else’s pocket. It was Q’s best ever work, without a doubt. Even his most sceptic colleagues would have to admit that there was very little wrong with it.

And the best thing about it? The machine even made an excellent Earl Grey. See how thoughtful he was? Forget saving Queen and Country, this was what Q would be remembered for forevermore!

Keen to show Bond what he’d concocted for him, Q immediately invited the secret agent to his lab on a quiet Sunday evening when everyone else had already gone home. (Read: Q had sent them away on “very important business”.) Finally, the spy and the Quartermaster would have all the time in the world to drink tea and coffee and eat biscuits and test out his latest inventions — and perhaps, if fate allowed it, they might even have a decent conversation as well. This was all rather exciting!

Similarly, the spontaneity of Q’s sudden invitation in his private inbox had made Bond _very_ curious; he’d been hoping Q would “talk to him in private” for several months now, so he came to the lab dressed in his very best suit, entirely expecting they’d finally have some very good desk sex. This was a bit of a mistake. (The choosing of his suit, that is.)

Fast forward to the moment of the meeting. A soft _ping_ signalled the opening of heavy doors.

_Here we go_.

‘What have you got for me this time, Q?’ Bond purred as he sauntered into Q’s lab, hands inside the pockets of his trousers as if he were the most comfortable, nonchalant person in the world. His chosen suit – dark blue, with just the _slightest_ hint of a pattern – was tighter than usual, with a line of subtle stitching immaculately outlining the curve of his thighs. His arse (if Q dared take a look), looked _perfect_. Promising.

‘I _do_ hope it’s a car,’ Bond added expectantly, with an all-encompassing look round the lab like he was expecting a gorgeous car to be parked somewhere. (One time, Q had made him a DB9 that was _bigger on the inside_. Can you imagine the many different uses a car like that would have? They’re bloody innumerable.)

Finally, Bond’s face fell when his gaze landed on the tiny cube in front of Q. ‘Or a . . . box.’

Q blinked. Bond had been expecting a car. Right. That was rather unexpected, but he could deal with that, couldn’t he? He could deal with that. The reveal of his new invention would make Bond’s wishes for a brand new car disappear entirely. He just had to go through with it and hope for the best, that was all. Espresso machine. Bond. Wow factor! Grateful kissing.

Everything would be fine.  

Hopefully.

‘I’m afraid I won’t quite surprise you with a new car today, 007, but I do have something far more . . . persuading,’ said Q, with a nervous pushing up of his glasses that Bond found rather suspicious. Was he about to be asked out? Would Q finally kiss him? Did Bond make the right call of putting on his most pec-hugging shirt underneath this suit that was so tight he felt like his muscles were about to pop out of his chest? Was he getting ahead of himself?

God, he was, wasn’t he? Q was probably about to show him something that every agent was getting, even that godawful double oh bloody nine that he couldn’t stand the sight of. Stupid tosser.  

Q cleared his throat. ‘As you may recall, you have often – repeatedly – complained to me that missions allow you very little time to sit down and have a — a cup of coffee,’ Q explained, his voice wobbling halfway through his sentence. He was feeling more and more uncertain about his grand plan with each second that passed. What if Bond didn’t _like_ it?

Gosh, he just remembered — he’d once made Bond an exploding pen, and while the spy obviously had a good enough poker face to convincingly convey that he really did _love_ the thing, _yes, Q, I really do_ , he absolutely hated it. Hated. It. The pen kept disappearing into unprovoked puffs of smoke at random intervals, and one time Bond had accidentally left the pen at home and nearly blown off his and the neighbours’ roofs. Q didn’t dare look Bond in the eyes for a week after that.

Could he have gotten it wrong _again_?

Q having momentarily gotten lost in his own, nervous thoughts, Bond motioned for him to continue with a small wave of his hand. If this meeting was indeed going to end in kissing or being asked out on a date like he hoped, he wanted to get to the good bit quickly. He _did_ have a country to protect. ‘I’m listening, Q. You were saying something about coffee?’

‘Right. Um. Where was I? Er, yes. Yes — _fortunately_ , I – I’ve come up with a solution for your ever-inconvenient coffee deficiency. Move back, please, 007, move back . . . Should this work, it’ll be the most impressive thing you’ve seen all day, I assure you.’

Amused, Bond slowly stepped away from the desk and watched how Q tapped the cube in front of them with surprisingly shaking fingers.

Nothing happened.

Not even an explosion.

The room became so quiet that Bond could hear the hands of a clock on the wall count down the seconds to six o’clock. If he listened more carefully, he might even be able to make out the sounds of the floor above, where MI6 agents more diligent and less keen to impress one’s sexy colleagues were busy doing good work for Queen and Country. In a corner, a small fridge was quietly buzzing away while a laptop on a desk pinged each time an e-mail was delivered to Q’s inbox.

Was he not away on missions so often, Bond might even have enjoyed becoming a permanent part of this lab . . .

Thirty seconds had passed, and still nothing was happening to the little grey cube in front of them. Bond was, in fact, beginning to wonder whether that was the whole point.

‘Very impressive, Q,’ a sarcastic Bond said after a while. ‘Does it come in red?’

That stung. ‘Be patient, 007, I’ve —’

_Poof!_

Just as Q was about to give the cube a second and third tap, the espresso machine sprung into life like a grey, metallic jack-in-the-box!

Buttons flickered. Coffee beans were prepared. Tea was chosen on the basis of smart facial recognition software in the machine’s display; Earl Grey for Q, something spicier for Bond. The machine’s insides whirred like a revving engine in one of Bond’s cars.  Already, every part of the espresso maker was thinking, calculating. Every next task was already prepared for. Even a small, white cup was in place, ready to be filled with tea or coffee or more.

But a long silence followed.

Bond didn’t really know what to think of it all. ‘It’s a . . . coffeemaker,’ he noted flatly.

‘Y—es,’ Q said slowly, as if he’d only just noticed it himself. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked uncertainly.

Bond was at a slight loss for words. Q had made him some odd inventions before, but this seemed _extremely_ superfluous, even for him. When was he ever supposed to use this?

The whole point was that he didn’t have the _time_ to drink coffee, not that he was never capable of popping into a café and ordering himself some. When was he supposed to use this — this _thing_? In an underground base? During an important, life-changing meeting with M about the fate of the world? Or alternatively, when he was being shot at?

‘I don’t really see the point, Q,’ Bond finally admitted with a vague shrug of his shoulders.  

‘It’s — it’s a coffeemaker, to take with you on travels.’

Bond was trying hard to supress a laugh. ‘I can see that.’

Q’s face fell. ‘You don’t like it,’ he surmised.

‘I never said that.’

Seeing that his comments must have hurt Q, Bond quickly shot the machine his best faux-interested glance. ‘What does it do?’

‘It makes coffee.’

He mustn’t laugh. He mustn’t.

‘Unbelievable,’ Bond said, in the most impressed voice he could muster. Then more sincerely, ‘Show me how it works, then.’

‘It’s quite uncomplicated, to be fair, you just press this button here, and —’

But in Q’s attempt to return the espresso machine to its miniscule size, something went very, very wrong indeed: there was a great big noise, and the espresso machine exploded into a dozen fragments of metal and ceramics. Q yelped. A fragment of coffeemaker hit him, instantly bruising his clad leg. Bond flew underneath the table in reflex. Liquid went everywhere. Brown drab ended up in places where it shouldn’t be; onto the floor, the tables, Q’s pristine workspace. An alarm went off. Coffee covered the blueprints Q had been working so hard on with a great, brown outburst. A sad, white teacup lay in pieces on the floor. A strong aroma of beans and tealeaves polluted the air and erased any hint of the smell of aftershave that Bond had brought with him when he entered. A thick brown smudge rendered Q’s glasses opaque.

But the worst thing Q saw when he wiped the coffee off his glasses with his sleeves, wasn’t his lab. It wasn’t even his desk, which had been hit by liquids and debris the strongest.

It was Bond’s suit, stained beyond recognition when he got up from the floor.  

Q didn’t know what to say other than a very rasped, nervous, ‘I’m so, so sorry, 007, this was — really, I — b-believe me, this was never my intention . . . I . . . God, I don’t even know what . . . I must’ve . . . oh dear . . .’

Like a true computer geek unused to seeing his crush covered in a smelly substance, Q got lost in a flurry of endearing panic, all the while Bond watched him with drops of tea still dripping off his sleeves, his face a mix of glee and naughtiness.

Sometimes, it was hard to imagine that Bond truly loved Q. One might imagine that someone like James Bond fancied men and women who were stronger and tougher than himself – and he had, occasionally; who was to say he had never enjoyed an all-nighter with a nice, buff lad from upstairs? –, but Q was the real deal. Q was nervous and a bit silly and probably still unused to love, but that’s what made him so exciting. Bond _loved_ how anxious Q got whenever he walked into his lab. He loved the way Q’s cheeks would flare up whenever he complimented him. It was . . . sexy. Encouraging.

(And really quite amusing.)

This wasn’t quite what Bond had imagined would happen when he received Q’s e-mail in his inbox that afternoon, but it would more than do. Oh yes.

Q had already started a full-fletched research into his terrible failing. First, he inspected what was left of the machine – not much –, then checked its drenched blueprints on the desk. He couldn’t see what he’d done wrong. Then he mimicked his earlier motions in the air as if trying to determine whether he ought to have pressed a button more gently or treated the machine more tenderly, but he again came to the same conclusion. He’d done absolutely nothing wrong, apart from not paying attention when Bond decided to take his suit off.

Bond was taking his suit off.

The Quartermaster stopped what he was doing to stare at Bond’s perfect, cotton-clad physique that was visible even through his stained dress shirt. His dark blue jacket had been draped carelessly over one of Q’s old office chairs. One of two shirt buttons were already undone, showcasing taut, tanned skin. Q had never realised how much he liked Bond’s neck before.

On Bond’s face, there was a look of utter amusement. ‘What’s wrong, Q?’ he asked complacently. (Like he knew how good he looked, the smug bastard.) ‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘I . . .’

When Q didn’t respond with a comprehensible answer, Bond proceeded to unbutton his own shirt very, very slowly. There was a stain just below his collar, and his shoulder blades were absolutely drenched with tea. (Clearly diving underneath Q’s desk had done very little to protect him from an angry coffeemaker.) His turquoise tie had already been thrown onto the floor, soaking up liquid until it looked a very dark blue.

Bond was undressing. _In his lab_.

‘You — you’re taking your shirt off,’ Q noted pointlessly. Did he want to see this? He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to see this.

‘It’s stained, Q.’

‘But you’re _taking it off_ ,’ Q reiterated, as if that meant anything to a professional exhibitionist like James Bond.

Bond had by now reached the final button of his shirt. A promising trail of tiny little hairs was visible behind his large hands as he loosened it with ease. ‘I assumed you had a washing machine here. You do, don’t you, Q? You must have, surely?’

Q swallowed when Bond took off his shirt with a bit of an effort and carelessly left it on top of his jacket. There was suddenly an awful lot of skin on display.

‘I don’t,’ Q stammered. Nerves were taking a sudden hold of his body.

(He didn’t even know where to _look_! Do 00-agents ordinary look so, so . . . hard and buff and —?)

(And then those _scars_!)

‘I’ll put my clothes back on then if it bothers you,’ Bond said flatly, with a casual wave of his hand at the clothes on the office chair.

He was teasing. Testing the waters.

He knew perfectly well what kind of reaction he’d elicit from Q if he took his clothes off.

‘No, don’t!’ Q cried a tad too enthusiastically. ‘I mean — I don’t —’

Q looked round him like a lost child. He had absolutely no idea what to do anymore.

Bond sensed it. _Liked_ it. ‘Am I making you nervous, Q?’

Q tried to look Bond in the eyes, then found his gaze being redirected to all — that — flesh. Instead, he decided to stare at a very dull spot on the high, dark ceiling above their heads and tried to think of thoroughly ordinary and innocent things, like kittens and sunsets and babies and bunnies and rabbits and flowers and teacups and first kisses under starlight and kissing Bond’s chest after da—

_Shit_.

Ceiling. Ceiling. Ceiling. Don’t look at Bond. Don’t even dare. Ceiling. Ceiling. Ceiling.

‘ _Q_? Am I making you _nervous_?’

‘N-no more than usual,’ Q admitted, his voice breaking mid-sentence.

‘I thought you were above that sort of thing, Q. You’re usually so . . . professional.’

Q said nothing. If he said nothing, maybe he wouldn’t further embarrass myself.

But in his attempt to keep staring at the ceiling, Q had failed to notice that Bond had come closer. And closer. When the Quartermaster dared look again, Bond was standing right in front of him. An arm’s length away. A deep breath, closer. Another, and they were mere centimetres apart.

‘You’re _blushing_ , Q.’

Q’s eyes decided to pay the ceiling another visit. ‘I – I don’t know what you’re talking about, 007. I – I’m quite capable of – of being – of . . .’

‘I think you like me like this, Q. _Naked_.’ In a complete shot in the dark, Bond decided to grab one of Q’s hands and slowly – slowly – place them on his own, half-naked body. Leading him until Q’s hand was flat on his stomach, touching. Feeling the heat of Bond’s skin as he gently breathed in and out. Making a connection.

It made Q’s face turn scarlet.

‘007 . . .’

‘Admit it Q, you made that thing just to get me naked.’

‘I did _not_!’ Q cried, very affronted by outrageous claim indeed — but not enough to remove his hand and step away from Bond’s hot, naked body. It felt far too good there, on Bond’s chest, where he could feel the spy’s every in- and exhale against his palm. It was the closest they’d ever been – closer even than when they were locked up in a broom cupboard on an odd little mission in Amsterdam –, and _God_ , did Q enjoy it. He’d give anything to feel that closeness again and again, and more. God knows how long he’d been craving such intimacy.

Q knew it was a wrong, dirty position to be in, of course he did. How bad would Q and Bond look in the eyes of their colleagues, with Bond half-naked and Q sporting a great big blush on his cheeks? They’d likely get fired, or worse; silly dalliances between employees were simply not allowed. They were discouraged and frowned upon. Even mere kisses were strictly forbidden and often led to quiet resignations, but it did not stop Q from wanting it to happen. _Kissing_ Bond. They were finally here now, one short step away from taking things to the next level. All it took, was another piece of flesh. A subtle, double-edged remark. No more.

They _knew_ they liked each other. What was to stop them from pursuing their desires apart from a very strong stench of _caffè lungo_ on their skins?

Bond’s voice brought Q back to his senses. ‘Still. You asked me here for a reason, didn’t you, Q? Must’ve been a bloody good one too, judging by the lack of co-workers.’ He looked round the empty office, with its coffee-stained floor and countless inventions. ‘It’s usually so _crowded_ here. I’d almost assume you sent your co-workers away to impress me.’

Q tried very hard to ignore the pair of hands that were trailing up his arms, past his elbows. They stopped at his shoulders, where they felt warm and strong. Steadying him, almost. Preparing him for what they both knew was about to come.

Q stuttered. ‘I m-may have invented that machine to impress you, yes. S-suffice it to say, I think I may have failed slightly,’ he said, his voice breaking mid-sentence when Bond’s hands found themselves fumbling with Q’s tie. Wanting to take it off, along with the rest of him.

‘On the contrary,’ the spy purred. The tie was off. Q’s neck, exposed. ‘You’ve impressed me very much, Q. Not every invention has to be _clean_.’

Q’s heart was racing in his throat. If he stayed here any longer, his failed invention wouldn’t be the only thing to explode this evening.

A finger trailed past Q’s neck. Q’s heart skipped a beat.

He felt Bond’s chest, pressed against his own, clad skin.

A different hand brushed the hair away from his glasses, tickling his temples as they did.

(Bloody hell, how do other couples make physical contact look so _easy_? All Bond was doing was touch his tie and take it off of him, and he was already half-swooning on the spot!)

Another skipping of a heartbeat.

Legs were starting to feel wobbly. Unsteady.

Q was absolutely convinced he’d never survive this. He’d faint on the spot, or worse, embarrass himself. Bond was tough and sexy and experienced and everything Q wasn’t and _oh_ so cool with his abs and arms and muscles and amazing hair, and what else could Q do but gasp softly when Bond leaned forward and kissed him?

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this during a not so happy couple of days of my life, so if this fic is all over the place that's probably the reason. It cheered me up though, so I hope you liked it too.


End file.
